The Dead and the Dieing
by bethanie-xo
Summary: There's quite a bit of anger form John. Okay, I was in bed last night and I was thinking of my friend Maia; her friend died of a tumour and she was at his funeral. Then my mind came up with this. Never let me think of deep stuff at night or this happens.


A little man sat in his chair facing the window; watching the world turn without him. He sat there day after day in his chair, watching the seasons change and the people grow. He sometimes wheeled himself to a different window but it was nearly always the centre window of his wall that faced the streets of London.

Every now and then he had someone over to help but he'd requested that he be left alone. His landlady and close friend came up every day to see how he was doing and make him a drink, they sat and spoke while he drank then she left.

He was watching the London cabs ferrying people to and from their meaningless mundane jobs and wished terribly that he could be that boring man in the black suit that had just kissed his wife and kids before heading off to work, but no. That was not what the world intended for Dr. John Watson.

As he watched the people walking by he heard a slight tap on his door. He wasn't expecting anyone so he wheeling himself to the door and opened it slowly.

It was raining outside and the figure that stood at the door had slightly damp hair and dark, wet clothes. He looked up and John could see his face for the first time. The man's eyes; deep colours, like nebulas; widened, he was shocked to have to look down. His dark, curly hair was tousled and John immediately recognised his chiselled cheekbones and strong jaw.

"What are you doing here?" Johns voice was hard and his chair blocked the door so the man couldn't step in.

"John, what's wrong, why are you in a chair?" He asked, ignoring Johns question.

"No, Sherlock, "He winced when he said the name. "What are you doing here? I have been so alone." His eyes were watering and his anger bubbled over as his voice cracked on the last word.

"I know. I was there at the graveyard. 'I was so alone and I owe you everything'-"

John cut Sherlock off as he imitated the words. "No. I owe you nothing. If anything you owe me. If you heard me say all of that then why, when I asked for a miracle, didn't you come say something?" Sherlock opened his mouth to talk but was cut off once again. "The day before I found out I had a tumour. I needed you Sherlock; I needed a miracle, and you weren't here." John nearly shouted the words and tears were overflowing from his light blue eyes.

"Can I come in?" Sherlock asked, he tried to step round John but the tiny hallway made this impossible.

"No. Why are you coming back now? I have weeks left Sherlock. Why now?" John whispered this time. He was angry and tired; he hadn't had a decent night's sleep in weeks.

"I'm sorry John. I wanted you to be safe. Is there, is there a cure?" Sherlock said slowly, seeming hurt by Johns rejecting.

"No, Sherlock. I'm dieing. You weren't here when I needed you so why are you here now?" John had had to deal with the tumour alone. Mrs Hudson helped him get in and out of bed and Mycroft came round every month or so to see how things are but other than that he'd been alone. His sister was getting back with her ex and she'd been too busy. Greg was too busy at the Yard and Molly was cutting up dead bodies. All of this made him rather bitter. He knew he was spending his last days alone.

"John. I am so sorry. We can find a cure?"

"Stop apologising!" John shouted, his hands clenched into balls and he punched the armrests of his chair. "The only reason I have been so calm about you not being here in my last days was the fact that if you were truly dead I would get to be with you again. But now you're alive and for years I have been getting gradually weaker, waiting for the days to see you. Now it's come I don't want it." He wheeled his chair away from the door planning to slam it in Sherlock's face but the he wasn't quite fast enough and Sherlock followed him in. "Don't bother. I would offer you a drink but I can't make one so you might as well leave." John said coldly.

He wheeled himself back to the window and sat looking outside, once again. A cup of coffee was thrust in front of him but after ignoring it Sherlock but it on the table next to him.

"Joh-" Sherlock was cut off again.

"Don't. Sherlock just don't. Don't try to apologise for not being here. Just thank your brother; he helped me when you didn't." John looked at his hands and then back out of the window. He saw everyone walking and for the first time in weeks he hated his condition. He didn't care what happened to him; until now. Up until now he was contempt with his death, he didn't mind. What did he have to live for? All his belongings would be sold and money would go to a charity to help people with tumours like his. He was fine with what was happening but now he had something to live for he just got upset. He looked at couples, walking hand in hand down the street. Or he looked at fathers and daughters, mothers and sons. How he longed to be able to hold someone up on his shoulders.

"Let me explain myself?" John wanted to interject but he was too tired to fight. "I went to see Gregory today, he found out I was alive and I told him that I'd taken down Moriarty's criminal webs. I asked him if it would benefit you; me coming back." Sherlock sighed and looked down. "He told me of your condition, I didn't quite believe it so I came here as soon as possible. I saw you in the chair and it all sunk in. I wanted to come back sooner but I couldn't. If I'd have known that day at the graveyard that you were—that you had a tumour I would have stayed, I would have helped."

John swivelled around slowly and looked up, into Sherlock's eyes. "Get out." He said slowly. "I don't want your excuses. Get out." Sherlock walked over to John, the dead and the dieing were in such close proximity. "I'm not joking. Leave."

"Okay." Sherlock leaned down and awkwardly hugged him. "Goodbye, John." He kissed his head as he straightened up and walked out of 221B.

In a mere two weeks time this flat would be empty, his stuff would be gone and he would be buried.

-4 days later-

John could feel his life slipping away. He lay on the couch with a blanket covering him; he was shivering. Mrs Hudson called Lestrade the minute she realized it was time and he, in turn called Harriet. This was the first time Johns sister had been to Baker Street and she sat on the chair opposite John looking around at his flat. John couldn't speak except to utter his final goodbyes.

John's eyes closed and he wanted to sleep but he heard a knock at the door and footsteps just seconds later.

"John?" Johns eyes fluttered open and he saw Sherlock standing at the door, like he had just days before.

John wanted to say get out but he couldn't; his mouth moved but no sound escaped his cold, dry lips.

Everyone's eyes swivelled to John and then all swept over to Sherlock.

"Can we have a minute?" Sherlock asked quietly, everyone got up and left the room, they either dispersed into the kitchen. Lestrade, Molly, Mrs Hudson and Harriet went through without a word. But Mycroft the last person in the room whispered something in Sherlock's ear, John couldn't quite make out what he was saying but he nodded slightly.

Mycroft followed John's only friends out of the heated room and closed the door behind him.

Sherlock bounded over to the sofa where John was laying and knelt in front of him, they were face to face.

"John, I'm sorry. I really am." John could see that Sherlock's eyes were rimmed with red and he hadn't got much sleep. "I wanted to come back, every day but I couldn't. If I'd have known I would never have left. I promise you." His eyes were a dark colour today and he looked into John's eyes.

John tried to lift his finger to his mouth and say 'shut up' but instead he just mumbled "shhh" and closed his eyes. Sherlock sat there for a minute, listening as Johns breathing steadied and then slowed until it eventually stopped.

"I love you" he whispered into John's ear, "It's over." He said into the empty room. He took Johns pulse and walked into the other room. "He's gone." Everything went silent and you could hear a pin drop. It seemed like hours before anyone moved, the impact took everyone by shock, but it was just minutes. They were bustling around. Calling the right people and telling them the right things. Sherlock just sat with Johns body, holding his limp hand.

Mycroft walked over to him when Lestrade and Molly left. Mrs Hudson was downstairs. "Did you tell him what he needed to hear?" Mycroft's hand was placed on Sherlock's shoulder and he looked pityingly at his younger brother.

"Yes. But I also told him the truth." And, to an extent Sherlock had told him the truth. Sherlock did want to come back, he just wished he had enough guts to tell John that he was loved when he was still alive.


End file.
